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When I Was Eight
A long three part prose about a dark desert night when a child was scared into submission.
Monica L Sprague
46 year old wife and mother who is trying to put her past behind her.
|AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (13)
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When I Was Eight
Monica L Sprague
Tonight marks an anniversary-
I was eight, we were eight-
she is eight...
He has already been in our bed,
once tonight already-
rough and cruel and hasty
Then came she,
with liquid so bitter and foul-
the pain was immediate,
the cramping intense
two hours, just more,
on the floor we did heave.
She did though clean me up,
a bit-a tiny bit was all,
and lift me gently into bed
and pulled the covers up
as she quietly left the room.
Then, sometime later, I heard them
the father and the man,
talking right outside the door
I thought "god not again".
They spoke together loudly,
loud enough that I could hear-
the words they said were frightening
I shivered and I hid.
I thought they would be entering,
the father and the man;
the words they spoke so loudly
were clearly meant for me to hear.
Instead of opening the door,
I heard them turn aside-
their feet I heard not enter in,
but quickly turn and go into the other side.
I waited there, I held my breath,
the fear began to grow.
I did not want them to come in,
I wanted them to go.
I do not know how long I hid
beneath my heavy covers,
but 'ventually I heard the sound
of shoes and getting louder.
The door it burst loudly open wide
the lights were blindly cast
from 'neath my covers I did feel
his hands upon my shoulders.
I was lifted from my bed and taken on a journey-
by car into the desert night
by my father and the other.
Out to the mesa we were driven
deep into the night
a little road of gravel,
the moon our only light.
And there when finally we did stop
upon the ground there lay
a body, small, grotesque in shape
not much bigger than my own.
A baseball bat lay on the ground
beside the bloodied body,
the face so badly beaten in
there were no facial features.
Slashes lined the chest,
a knife still in the hand
of another man who stood there
breathing hard and trembling with fear.
I couldn't tell just who it was,
did I even know this kid?
A boy, a girl, from school or church?
I could not recognize.
The place where men would have their fun,
the place where sex is noted
was cut upon, mutilated,
no penis nor vagina.
I was told a name, now did I hear-
what was the name they said?
Geneveve, she was my friend
they said my fault that she was slaughtered.
I killed my friend so long ago,
this very July night.
The guilt I bear, the shame is there
it was my fault I knew it.
I shouldn't have befriended her
I shouldn't be so needy.
Her death, you see, because of me
I merely was so lonely.
I knew without them telling me
that this would be my fate,
if I didn't not do as I was told
and kept it to myself.
Just telling you now, here tonight,
could be a big mistake-
you see he haunts my nights
and lurks in my daydreaming.
I would not want you to end
the way of Geneveve-
I'm bad, you should not stay here
protect yourself, please, before they come
as they did when I was eight.
|READER'S REVIEWS (1)
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"This is so intense and so moving and so well written. I was with her on that horrible journey. So so touching x" -- Briony.
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© 2006 Monica L Sprague
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